On Pesach, we say “bechol dor vador” but every week we should be saying “bechol door vadoor” in recognition of one of the most underappreciated people in shul: the synagogue doorman. Nearly every synagogue has a proactive, persnickety congregant who serves as the monitor of sanctuary ingress and egress. We are talking about the usher who is more of a “shusher.” When hallway schmoozing becomes too noisy or doorway foot traffic becomes too congested, such well-meaning doormen often spring into action with the nearly annoying enthusiasm of an over-eager boy scout.

Most doormen have a very low tolerance for noise in or near the doors of the main sanctuary. They hush any hubbub and silence any silliness because, during davening, clattery and kavanah are incompatible. Other things in life also are incompatible like Tu B’shvat and lumberjacks.

In most instances, the synagogue doorman is a benevolent bouncer who maintains order through non-lethal shushing. Such doormen have only the best intentions and they in no way wish to cause any harm. Every move they make is for peace-keeping purposes and to ensure that the sanctuary’s decibels and decorum are appropriate for the serious and holy business of tefillah. In this regard, synagogue doormen should be respected, treasured and celebrated as sanctity saviors. Indeed, if some shuls did not have an effective doorman, bedlam would ensue, with commotion leading to chaos and meshugas leading to mayhem. In fact, without a doorman on patrol, every shabbos would feel like Simchas Torah and every minyan would feel like a Purim shpiel. (And, without a rabbi, every shabbos would feel like a break-away minyan.)

It is important to note that door monitoring is not the exclusive domain of men. Women can monitor doors just as effectively but, in most Orthodox shuls, the door patrol is assigned more often to men, especially for the main sanctuary Thus, in an Orthodox shul, finding a “doorwoman” might be difficult, but certainly far easier than finding a male “mikvah lady.”

The best synagogue doormen are like the best referees in professional sports: they do their jobs without fanfare or even acknowledgement. The best synagogue doormen also are like the Lockheed F-117 Nighthawk: they do their jobs stealthily and under the radar. Thus, from a professional perspective, if you could not identify your understated synagogue doorman in a police lineup, then your doorman is a keeper. (Of course, from a legal perspective, if your synagogue doorman is actually in a police lineup, then perhaps the doorman should be relieved of his post.)

Most synagogue doormen leave a mark on the congregation as hushing heroes. Unfortunately, a few synagogue doormen leave other marks on the congregation, including on their collective psyche. If you have never been scolded by an excessively strict synagogue doorman, then you may not appreciate the shocking intensity. A tongue-lashing or death-stare from such an overly-aggressive doorman can be triggering and traumatizing. It would not be surprising for a therapist to encounter a congregant with doorman-related trauma just like it would not be surprising for a pediatrician to encounter a bar mitzvah boy with candy throwing-related injuries.

Sometimes the trauma caused by a synagogue doorman has something to do with the circumstances. Most synagogue doormen are like plain-clothed undercover cops on a sting operation. They do not wear uniforms or badges and they pounce on perpetrators without warning. In certain cases, when the anonymity ends, the acrimony begins because some congregants do not want to be reprimanded by their fellow congregants. For this reason alone, few congregations would hire a rabbi from within their own ranks.

Serving as a synagogue doorman can make post-shul socializing somewhat awkward. When a doorman is invited out for shabbos lunch, the doorman’s track-record can come back to haunt him:

Host: “Does everyone here know each other?”

Doorman: “I’m not sure.”

Other Guest: “Well, I definitely know you, Mr. Doorman. Last week you mercilessly berated my four-year old son when he was trying to find me in shul.”

Doorman: “Ah yes, I remember. Your son was screaming and crying at the top of his lungs.”

Other Guest: “Because he broke his arm in the shul playground!”

Doorman: “Well, I told him that I would let him in when the rabbi’s speech was over.”

Other Guest: “But it was Shabbos HaGadol, arguably the longest speech of the year!”

Doorman: “And arguably the most important.”

Other Guest: “Do you know how painful a broken arm is?”

Doorman: “No, I do not.”

Other Guest: “Would you like to find out!?!?”

Doorman: “No thanks. That could interfere with my doorman duties.”

Other Guest: “Oy vey.”

Final thought: The lack of a doorman certainly can have a “delet”erious effect on decorum.

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By Jon Kranz